“Needle marks, scars, pills–and an almost bald head” blares the New York Post‘s headline today. It’s no surprise that Jackson–who spent much of his adult life whittling away at his identity–ended up as a barely recognizable skeleton filled with puncture wounds and mutilation signs. With no weight, hair, or pigment, and nothing in his tummy except the remains of some pills, the self-proclaimed King of Pop had popped all right–he was like a deflated plastic doll, leaving nothing behind but an epidermis that had been tweaked and bleached and made up as if he had already been dead for years.
Isn’t it horrifying that, as with Anna Nicole Smith and Heath Ledger, huge stars are so wildly insecure and vulnerable that they succumb to a battery of prescriptions designed to help them live while actually causing their death? Isn’t it appalling that people around them prey on these insecurities by supplying them with endless injections and bottles and assurances that one more dose and they’ll be over the rainbow?
And don’t think it’s the end of this scenario, kids. Every troubled icon eventually finds a self-serving enabler. They always die stripped of all pride and reason–but they’re thin, at least.